one punk monk[ey] goes off the beaten track:
no map. no structure. no accountability.
just grit & glitz.

Monday, April 19, 2010

to market, to market

no fat pigs except for me although i did espy at the growers markets an organic meat stall which involved some dragging of feet by my dear carnivorous companion. the markets are low-key magic; there is something for foodies of all shapes & sizes.

sheltered beneath one of the original railway sheds - the skeleton shell offers protection from the elements & a leisurely hum. this contrasts significantly with my standard frequented markets in chinatown, which is pure hedonistic death of feet by ubiquitous trolley flattening bustle. eveleigh is so, dear is say it, civilised.

the growers are all personable & happy to leisurely discuss their farms & growing techniques around customers. the fruit of their labours bear testament to the love & pride they take in their craft. it's a very pleasant wander.

for 20 dollars i left "block 11" stand with a large bag of corn cobs, mammothian fennel which smelt like freshly hewn anise, broccoli, tamarillos, basil, yellow grape tomatoes and more... all organic packed with flavour, colour & much appreciated idiosyncrasy.

the proud bearers of the royal easter champion trophy for their alto extra virgin olive oil pose proudly after we discuss finer points of permaculture strategies for the pending mountain olive crop using the hardies mammoth strain. relative newcomers to the olive growing block, they can't keep the smiles off their faces. after winning two handfuls of medals in your market debut, why would you?

much liberal dousing is done in the aid of testing the award winning elixer of gold. mmm, zero defects, zero resistance to seconds, thirds, fourths. they promptly hide the bread as maddened drooling ensues.

perfection comes at a price but at 30 AUD for 750 mls, it's well worth it. i spend my alcohol money for the week & happily suck it up... and head back over to the potato man.

i am edith massey & those potatoes may as well be eggs. eggs, eggs, EGGS! i love the egg man slash potato man from robertson armed with fifteen different varieties.

a big brown paper bag of kipflers are acquired for 5 bucks & he throws in some purple congos to broaden my horizons. sadly, there's no phone number lying beneath the eyes. only eggs. which is fine.

i use these waxy purple skin honeys in the chargrilled vegetable salad later on with the rest of the hoard & prepare to sleep sated, before preparing to face the week on cabbage soup "dreaming of so many little eggies, and i'm still starving, and i'm going to eat them all before i go to sleepie".

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